


one sunshine day

by heartofstanding



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: (they're Lancasters), Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Mother-Son Relationship, but angst in hindsight, kids with issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Mary de Bohun and her boys.





	one sunshine day

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be a prequel to [The Hope of Spring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346850) in which Harry/Henry V took his baby brother Humphrey out to feed some ducks. But then I was like "what if Mary was there? what if all her sons were there?" And this fic suddenly happened.

**Kenilworth, October 1393**

Leaving little Blanche sleeping peacefully under the watchful eye of her nurse, Mary finds her sons in the older boys’ room. Humphrey is sitting pressed up against Harry, Achilles the stuffed bear sitting in his lap, and a pile of puppets next to Harry. John is directing a group of miniature soldiers against Thomas’s slightly larger army. Mary smiles. They’ve obviously thought some grand story that ends with a great battle.

‘Who’s winning?’ she says.

She’s mobbed at once. The boys leap up and charge over, knocking into her. She drops down and hugs them tight, feeling their eagerness to be fussed over. She draws Humphrey close and kisses his hair. He turned three last week which honestly appears to be a miracle – she thought he would never live to see it, brought down by one of the many illnesses that have dogged him since birth. She pulls John close next, setting him on her lap before reaching out to kiss Thomas and Harry.

‘So, who is winning?’

‘Me,’ John says.

‘Are not!’

Mary winces at the volume of Thomas’s voice. ‘Thomas, remember what we talked about? You’re inside so that means you use your _inside_ voice.’

Thomas pulls a face that suggests he doesn’t entirely agree, but he does lower his voice and apologise. Mary lets it go. It’s hard to teach Thomas to behave when Henry indulges him so much, laughing at how loud he gets and saying he’s a boy so of course he’s going to be boisterous.

‘Neither of them is going to win,’ Humphrey says. ‘Achilles is going to trample them!’

He shoves his bear into her face and she laughs.

‘Achilles is a very fearsome warrior,’ she says. ‘I am sure he will acquit himself well.’

‘He won’t,’ John says. ‘He’s a _bear._ He’s going to get killed by all my warriors.’

Humphrey lets out a protesting squawk and Harry hugs him close. Mary sighs; she doesn’t really know what to do with these two. She understands John’s frustrations with his little brother – Humphrey can’t keep up and has to be looked after – but Humphrey adores his older brothers and gets upset if he’s left out of their games. She can’t scold John without worsening his resentment towards Humphrey and yet, Humphrey’s still deeply hurt by John’s words. The only thing she thinks might work is giving John more attention, letting him find his own light.

‘John,’ she says simply, and squeezes him. ‘Can this game be left for a while, do you think?’

John screws his face up, but Harry nods. Humphrey tilts his head back to study Harry and then nods determinedly as well, clutching Achilles to his chest.

‘Suppose,’ Thomas says. ‘Means we’ll have to finish the story another day. We’ve been working on it for weeks.’

‘I know,’ Mary says. ‘But I thought you might like to look go down to the mere with me. We can feed the birds there. It’s nicer outside than in.’

‘Ducks?’ Humphrey asks, drumming his feet against the floor in excitement.

‘Of course!’

‘Can Father come?’ Thomas says.

Harry sends her a look full of anxiety. She shakes her head and does not miss how Harry’s shoulders slump, relief overtaking his anxiety. That is another thing she doesn’t know how to fix.

‘Your father’s busy right now. It’ll just be us.’

The boys agree to give up their game. Mary gives orders to their nurses to ready them, dressing them in warmer clothes and sturdier shoes, and for two of her damsels to go down to the kitchens to fetch bread for the ducks and food for them. They’ll eat by the shore of the mere, which will be lovely in this warm weather. She calls Humphrey to her, lifts his chin with her fingers. He’s too thin still, though at least he’s having a run of good health and is eating well.

‘Now,’ she says. ‘Do we need to put you on the leading strings?’

He shakes his head and she bites back her smile, not very convinced. He’s prone to excitement and hates the leading strings. At least he’s not nearly as bad as Thomas was. Thomas _had_ to be kept on the leading strings and was strong enough that, even restrained, he’d nearly pull her over whenever he’d charge off after something.

‘I’ll look after him,’ Harry says, taking Humphrey’s hand firmly.

‘Alright,’ Mary says, though she makes a subtle gesture for Margaret, Humphrey’s nurse, to take the leading strings just in case. ‘But you, little man, have to stick close to Harry or to me. Can you promise me that?’

Humphrey nods very seriously, turning to look up at Harry with absolute adoration and Harry hugs him again. Mary knows she doesn’t need to worry too much – Harry is a responsible, reliable brother and Humphrey would happily follow Harry around all day if they let him. She wonders how he’s going to cope when Harry is established in a different household with a tutor. But she’ll manage that when it happens.

‘Let’s go,’ she says.

*

Their shadows stretch out far before them, the sun warm on their backs. Harry stops and crouches down, letting Humphrey clamber onto his back before standing up, reaching behind to support Humphrey’s legs as Humphrey’s arms wrap around his neck and he burrows his chin into Harry’s hair. Mary looks down at John, holding her hand.

‘What about you? Are you tired of walking?’

John shakes his head determinedly. ‘I’m not a baby.’

‘I know, sweet-thing,’ she says, squeezing his hand. ‘You’re still allowed to want to be carried.’

She winces as Thomas runs past, his governess already calling after him hopelessly. If only Thomas wasn’t too old for leading strings. She sighs, glancing down at John.

‘You’re such a good boy, John,’ she says and he beams up at her.

As they walk, Harry drifts over close enough to touch and she reaches out to playfully poke his nose. He wrinkles it up and sticks his tongue out at her before breaking into a fit of giggles.

The water of the mere is like glass, reflecting the clear blue of the sky and the trees and grass, the castle behind them. There are ducks on the shore: mallards that eye them curiously, obviously hoping that they’ve brought food. Two white swans are gliding far out on the smooth, silvery surface.

‘It’s a beautiful day, you can see forever,’ she says, but she’s no longer looking at the water, studying her boys instead.

Harry is smiling, looking properly relaxed – he’s so beautiful when he’s like this, not wearing that pinched look he gets when he’s struggling with his studies or with his father. She reaches out and draws him close to her, his head coming to rest against her side. Humphrey’s eyes are half-slitted, his eyes on the ducks – he will not be happy until he’s fed and petted them. John is still holding her hand, but standing a little apart, sturdy legs ready to propel him down towards the water. Thomas has loped back to wait next to them, impatient to get to his fun.

‘Remember,’ Mary says. ‘The same rules as always. No one goes into the water, no running at the birds – Thomas, that especially means _you_.’

He grins at her cheekily and she knows that he’s already put her instructions out of his head.

‘You get a quarter of a loaf of bread each,’ she says. ‘If you throw it into the mere – Thomas – or eat it – Humphrey – you don’t get another one. You especially don’t go bothering anyone else to make them give you theirs – John. And, Harry, stop giving your bread to your brothers.’

John, to his credit, flushes, while Thomas looks bored and Humphrey sighs, face still buried in Harry’s hair. Harry is as she expected – unrepentant.

‘Alright,’ she says. ‘Go on then.’

*

Mary is sitting on the bank, an old blanket beneath her. John is sitting in her lap, tearing up bread to throw to the ducks clustered around them. Thomas and Harry are helping Humphrey dispose of his bread and sacrificing their own so that Humphrey can pet as many ducks as possible.

‘Mama,’ John says. ‘Do you have a favourite child?’

‘I’ve told you before, sweet-thing,’ she says. ‘I don’t have favourites. I don’t even have a favourite colour.’

‘Yes you do,’ John says. ‘Everyone has a favourite colour.’

‘I don’t,’ Mary says, lips trembling with the effort not to laugh.

John frowns up her, his face stark with disbelief. His favourite colour is yellow, which is a shame because she can rarely find cloth in that hue suitable for his colouring. She smiles and bends down to kiss him.

‘Am I your favourite son?’

Mary laughs and kisses him again. ‘Only as much as your brothers are _also_ my favourite sons.’

‘But you must like one more than the other…’

‘No,’ Mary says. ‘I don’t. I love you all equally.’

He goes quiet, his face screwing up and she waits for his next attempt to trick her.

‘I have a favourite brother,’ he says. ‘So you must have a favourite son.’

She laughs and squeezes him tightly. ‘It doesn’t work that way, John. You’re all my favourites.’

John throws his last piece of bread far, watching the ducks race after it, and leans back against her. She does worry about him sometimes, how serious he is, how he feels overlooked and underappreciated.

‘You,’ she says, taking his hands in hers, ‘are very special. You’re always well-behaved, kind and smart. You’re careful and painstaking with your lessons, but you’re so clever. You look after Humphrey even when he’s annoying you. And you’re so funny and so strong. I love you very much.’

‘How much?’

‘Oh,’ Mary says. ‘I don’t know. More than all the water in the world.’

John grins up at her and she swoops down to kiss him again.

*

Thomas ends up becoming bored of being a good brother and runs wild after not too long, leaving Humphrey with Harry to race down to the shore and send ducks scattering, before darting into the water. A curse pops into her head, so foul it makes her blush, and John looks up at her.

‘Are you _sure_ you love us all equally?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Though sometimes Thomas tests my patience. I’m sorry, love.’

Thomas is ignoring his governess’s attempts to get him to come out, so she puts John on the blanket and stands up, heading down to the edge of the water. As she watches, Thomas bends down and begins to scoop up a handful of mud, taking aim at Harry who isn’t even watching him, but playing with Humphrey.

‘Thomas!’ she snaps. ‘None of that.’

‘But—’

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘Out. Now.’

Thomas sighs and lets the mud fall through his fingers, plopping back into the mere. She waits and he trudges out, hose and shoes soaked.

‘You heard me say very clearly not to go into the water,’ she says. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Because,’ he says and sighs deeply. ‘Because we don’t know how deep the water is and because John and Humphrey will want to go in the water too and they don’t know how to swim.’

Mary nods. ‘And you’ve got to walk back in your wet clothes and could catch a chill. Honestly, Thomas. I curse the day you were let out of leading strings.’

Thomas grins up at her, reaching out with muddy hands. She jumps back with a shriek just in time, his hands just missing her gown. When he reaches for her again, she dodges and grabs him around his waist, lifting him up.

‘Oh, you little rascal,’ she says, and kisses him to make him squirm. ‘I despair of you sometimes, I really do.’

Thomas pouts at her and she hugs him tighter. His arms wrap around her and he is getting mud on her gown, but it doesn’t matter. It’s an old gown, entirely suitable to be muddied by her boys – especially in exchange for a hug.

‘You don’t have to rush into everything just because it’s _there,_ ’ she says. ‘Think about things before you rush into them.’

‘I’ll try,’ Thomas says.

She kisses his cheek and sets him down on the ground again. He reaches for a handful of dirt and she raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for it. This gown already has to be washed, so she may as well let him have his bit of fun. He grins and throws it and she shrieks, raising her hands to shield her face.

‘Leave Mama alone!’ John yells.

Soon, she has three valiant defenders running to defend her honour. Harry tackles Thomas to the ground while John throws a handful of torn-up grass at his head. Humphrey’s there as well, enthusiastic but a little confused and liable to be trampled or pushed over. Even John, only a year older, is much bigger than him. She scoops Humphrey up and retreats.

‘Boys,’ she says as a last warning. ‘Don’t go in the water.’

*

Harry lets Thomas up only to chase him back up onto the grass and towards a tree, John at their heels. Humphrey’s head turns to watch them, but he makes no attempt to follow them, yawning widely. Mary strokes a hand over his hair and cuddles him close before settling him in her lap.

‘Are you happy?’ she says. ‘You fed a lot of ducks today, and patted many more.’

Humphrey nods, yawning again. She rests the back of her hand against his forehead, checking for a fever – he’s probably just tired, but she has to check. She will not be able to stand it if he falls ill again in the middle of such a lovely day.

‘Mama?’ he says. ‘Can we do this every day? While we’re here, anyway?’

She considers it, watching the way the water ripples, breathing in the sweet scent of autumn in the air. The older boys have lessons to work around, but she can take Humphrey out on his own or with John, and the weather will soon turn cold, but for now, it’s beautiful to be out in the sun. And when Humphrey gets sick again, he’ll once more be confined to his bed and frustrated beyond belief.

‘For now,’ she says. ‘It won’t be so nice in winter, and the ducks won’t be here.’

Humphrey nods. ‘Where do they go?’

‘Somewhere warmer,’ she says, watching his eyes drift closed. ‘As we do.’

‘Do they go and visit their grandfather too?’

Mary smiles. Every Christmas that Humphrey can remember, they’ve spent with Henry’s father.

‘Maybe.’

‘Poor things,’ Humphrey says, shuddering.

Mary’s smile widens. She can’t blame Humphrey, really. John of Gaunt is an intimidating grandfather to have, strict and unindulgent. Beyond keeping himself informed of how the older boys are progressing with their lessons, he has never once expressed interest in her children. She wonders what Henry will say when she tells him about this conversation – he doesn’t much like his father either.

Humphrey goes quiet and she thinks he might be drifting off for a nap – this is a big day for him and he’s very young still. But then he stirs on her lap, reaching to tug on her sleeve.

‘Mama?’ he says. ‘I’m hungry.’

She laughs and kisses him. It is getting around the time when the boys usually eat, she’s only surprised that the other three haven’t already made their complaints. She directs her women to set out the food and then stands up, carrying Humphrey with his arms around her neck and head tucked against her shoulder.

‘We’ll eat soon,’ she says. ‘We’ve just got to get your brothers out of that tree.’

They’ve climbed one of the low-branched trees near the shore. Mary suspects that Harry and Thomas worked together to get John up, one giving him a boost while the other pulled him up. But at least he looks happy and relatively secure, and Harry is only a couple of branches above him, well within reach should John need him. Thomas is perched near a little higher up, on a nice, thick branch, and picking off some of the dead leaves to drop down on Harry and John.

‘Boys,’ Mary calls out. ‘Time to eat.’

They get down fairly quickly, Harry taking John on his back, and then it’s a race back to the feast her ladies have been setting out. Thomas wins it while she and Humphrey come last.

*

When most of the food has been eaten – and it was a trial, to get John to not to pick the beans out of his portion and force them on Harry or Humphrey – Mary takes the small paring knife and carves up a pear, handing slices around to her sons. She asks about their lessons. Thomas shrugs and says he’s fine, which is what she expects to hear from him. His governess says the only things he’s really interested in are wars and jousts – he’s especially proud of having a father who fought in a Crusade. John is happy and progressing well – he’d been desperate to leave behind his nurse and begin his lessons with the older boys.

Harry studies his lap and is non-committal, which is worrying. He’s a clever, quick-minded boy, but he’s prone to self-doubt and bouts of melancholia that overtake his enthusiasm. Humphrey glances at Harry, then climbs into his lap, offering his carefully nibbled-on slice of pear. Harry wraps his arms around Humphrey and takes the slice gently between his teeth.

‘Mama, when I do start lessons?’ Humphrey says.

‘Soon, love,’ Mary says. ‘Next year, maybe.’

If his health permits. She picks up an orange and cuts it into segments, handing them out to the boys.

‘Mama,’ Harry says. ‘Can we go on a barge on the mere? Please?’

Mary grins, leaning over to brush Harry’s hair back from his face. It’s a great idea, a special kind of outing – not something they could do every day.

‘Not today,’ she says. ‘It’s a bit late for that kind of adventure. We can go tomorrow. It’ll be beautiful out there.’

‘Like we can see forever?’ 

‘Exactly!’ Mary says, stretching back to look at the water. Perhaps after the meal, she will go for a walk along the banks. It’s too beautiful not to.

‘Mama,’ Humphrey pipes up. ‘I think I swallowed a seed.’

Mary sighs, looking at Humphrey, his face and hands sticky with juice, the orange skin discarded on the ground and the horrified expression he’s wearing. She has to handle this quickly before one of his brothers tell him that he’s going to grow an orange tree in his belly and swell up and burst.

*

Humphrey and John are napping curled up together on the blanket after she diffused Humphrey’s fears about eating a seed – happily _without_ the help of his brothers. Thomas has gone off exploring with his governess, and Harry has his head in her lap, his eyes shut and his absurdly long legs stretched out. He’s going to grow up so tall and tower over her and even over his father.

Her mother says Harry looks like her and he does have her colouring, the dark hair and dark eyes – most of the boys do, with Thomas the only one to inherit his father’s fairer hair, and Blanche has the snow-white hair of Henry’s mother, at least as far as Mary’s been told. Mary runs a finger down Harry’s forehead, the sharp angle of his nose. His eyelids flutter open to reveal the dark irises, and her hand cups the soft roundness of his cheek.

‘Do you want to come for a little walk?’ she says. ‘Just the two of us?’

Harry’s eyes shift towards where John and Humphrey are napping. She smiles and bends down to kiss his forehead.

‘They’re sleeping, love – Margaret and the other ladies will watch them while we’re gone.’

Mary stretches out a hand to him and he takes it. Together, they stand up and walk along the banks, Harry sometimes ranging in front of her or dropping back to study something. But he always keeps hold of her hand and comes back to her side. She points out swans to him and a pretty stretch of land on the other side of the mere, then gives him a stick to write his name in the moist ground, watching the careful way he shapes the _H._

‘Mama,’ he says. ‘Can you tell me the story again?’

Mary reaches out to hug him, squeezing him tight in her arms. She knows what story he means, it’s the one he always asks for when he’s feeling down. She wishes she could cocoon him from the world, keep him safe and happy but in a year or so he will leave her household and she does not know what she will do without him.

‘Oh Harry, love,’ she says. ‘Of course. I’ll write it down for you so you can always have it with you. But come, sit down for a bit.’

She leads him onto the higher ground, sits on a grassy knoll that overlooks the vast stretch of silvery water, and holds him close, running her hands through his dark hair.

‘I loved you,’ she says, ‘from the very first moment I knew you were in my tummy. I was so excited to feel you growing, to carry you around with me. I couldn’t wait to meet you.’

She takes his small hand and presses it between her own. Giving birth to him had hurt – more than she thought possible, the worst and longest of all her children’s births. A whole day, a whole night and then a few more hours as well.

‘And when I saw you,’ she says. ‘Everything was worth it. I would have gone through that thrice over to have you. You were an ugly little thing – you know, like Humphrey and Blanche were when they were just born.’

Harry nods. ‘They were very ugly.’

‘They were! And you were. A tiny little thing, all wrinkly and red.’ Mary kisses his forehead. ‘Yet you were the most perfect thing I’d ever seen. And then I held you, Harry, and I didn’t know until then how you could love something so much you’d think it was worth emptying oceans for.’

She holds him close, feeling tears prick her eyes. She loves him so much and it hurts that he hurts and she can’t fix it. His arms cling to her, his face pressed hard against her chest. His shoulders shake and she wishes she could do _something_ that helps but all she can do is hold him.

‘I still think that, Harry,’ she says. ‘And I always will. I am so proud of you, too, my clever, kind boy.’

*

Harry is a little brighter when they return to the others, but he is clingy, hanging onto her hand and not letting go when John comes sprinting over, showing off a leaf he found, red as blood save a slash of yellow. Humphrey is sitting up on the blanket with Margaret and lets out a shout that makes Harry smile before he runs over. Mary takes John’s leaf, running her finger over it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, passing it over to Harry to see.

‘You can have it, Mama,’ John says.

‘Thank you, love.’

Harry hands it back to her and she tucks it into the bodice of her gown just as Humphrey reaches them.

‘Mama, Mama,’ Humphrey says breathlessly, ‘John taught me how to say the alphabet!’

He launches into a recitation, but gets confused and muddled up half-way through. Mary smiles, about to gently rescue him – only John gets there first.

‘No, dung-face,’ he says. ‘Not like that. Idiot.’

‘John,’ Mary says as Humphrey lets out a distraught wail. ‘Don’t call Humphrey names.’

Harry grabs Humphrey and hugs him close. Mary watches them with one eye, ready to take over if Humphrey resists Harry’s attempts to settle him, and keeps the other on John.

‘Thomas calls me that! Thomas calls everyone that! Except you and Papa.’

‘And that’s very naughty of him,’ Mary says. ‘But you should never do something just because Thomas does it.’

John pouts. Harry has settled Humphrey down is working through the alphabet with him, their voices chorusing in unison. Mary hugs John to her.

‘It was very good of you to teach Humphrey, though,’ she says.

‘He still got it wrong.’

Mary smiles and squeezes John’s shoulders. ‘That’s not your fault.’

Just as Harry and Humphrey finish their recitation, Thomas comes charging up, his exhausted governess trudging behind him. His hair is a mess with several leaves caught in his curls, but he beams as he holds up his hands, showing off a bedraggled mallard feather, one half an iridescent purple and other a greyish-brown.

‘I found you a present!’ he yells.

‘It’s so beautiful!’ she says, picking it up and twirling it between her fingers. ‘Thank you, love. I’m spoilt, with four lovely boys, giving me presents.’

‘I tried to find one for Father too, but that was the only good one I could find.’

‘We’ll share it,’ Mary promises, tucking the feather next to John’s leaf. When she gets back, she’ll put them both in the little box she keeps the treasures her boys have given her.

But they have to go back in. It’s getting late and however warmly the boys are rugged up now, it’ll soon be too cold for them – and she really can’t risk Humphrey’s health. Besides, Henry will be returning from his hunt soon and will become anxious if he can’t find them. When she tells the boys they have to back to the castle, Harry frowns and looks over at the mere.

‘I don’t want to,’ he says.

Mary smiles sadly. ‘Nor do I. But it’ll be too cold to be out soon. We’ll go out on the barge tomorrow, though. That’ll be good, won’t it? And tonight, why – we’ll get Blanche and settle down by a nice, warm fire. You and I can practice the harp together, and then I’ll read you all a story.’

*

Mary looks over the room, smiling at what she finds. Thomas’s exploits have obviously exhausted him – he’s fast asleep on the settle. Humphrey is curled up on her lap with his bear, and paging through the book she just finished reading from – he can’t read yet, but he loves looking at the words. On the rug by the fire, John and Harry are building a city from wooden blocks, and near them is Henry, sleeping with his head back and mouth open, little Blanche on his lap with her cloth doll.

Humphrey looks up at her and Mary winks at him. She picks him up, book, bear and all, and stands, before settling him back down. She throws a blanket over Thomas, eases a cushion behind his head, and moves to the fire. She plucks up a couple of blocks they have missed and offers them out to John.

‘We’re going to besiege it next,’ Harry says.

John’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he stretches to place the blocks on the top of a tower.

‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to see. But you’ll have to do it very quietly or you’ll wake the guard.’

She points to Henry, asleep in his chair, and the boys giggle. Mary stifles her own – clearly, Thomas is not the only one to have exhausted himself today. Blanche is awake still, so Mary carefully eases her out from under Henry’s arm and cuddles her close.

‘There we are, love,’ she says. ‘We’ll let Father sleep, won’t we?’

Blanche wraps her arms around Mary’s neck and Mary kisses her daughter’s forehead. She paces over to the fire and stands there, cuddling her girl, and watching her boys.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry's birth, as told from Henry's POV, is the subject of my fic [His Autumn Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266900).
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> I have used the following birth dates and ages for Mary's children. Harry - 16 September 1386, age 7. Thomas - late October 1387, age 5 (but soon to turn 6). John - 20 June 1389, age 4. Humphrey - 3 October 1390, age 3. Blanche - May 1392, age 17 months. Philippa - June 1394, so likely just conceived. These dates are taken from or (if the detail is sparse) my inventions based on the dates set out in Ian Mortimer's _The Fears of Henry IV_ , Christopher Given-Wilson's _Henry IV_ and Amy Licence's _Red Roses_. 
> 
> Given-Wilson's book also helpfully provided the name of Humphrey's nurse. At this time, in 1393, Harry, Thomas and John shared the same governess - Mary Hervy, who is unnamed in this fic for obvious reasons - and Blanche's nurse was a woman named Isabella.
> 
> Mary, Henry and their children are known for their love of and interest in music. Evidence suggests that Mary, in addition to playing the harp and the cither, also composed music, and Harry (Henry V) did indeed play the harp as well as recorders and pipes. Henry IV also played the harp, cither and recorder and there is some debate as to whether it was Henry IV or Henry V who was the 'Roy Henry' who composed two songs in the Old Hall Manuscript collection (which likely originated in Thomas's household chapel). A good overview of Henry V's musical interests can be found in Malcolm Vale's _Henry V: The Conscience of a King_ , while Mortimer and Given-Wilson were my sources for Mary and Henry IV's.
> 
> I got the idea of leading-strings (basically leashes for young children) from Georgette Heyer's novel about John, _My Lord John_ , but whether they existed in medieval times is something I don't know.


End file.
